It was Thanksgiving my freshman year of college. I had come home to celebrate what, in our family, was a most tradition-laden holiday. At our home there was one thing we always knew we were going to run out of — chairs. There were never enough chairs.

My father was a preacher, and my mother worked for a well-known charity, but their real passion was filling our house with people, especially on the holidays. This particular Thanksgiving turned out to be life-changing for me.

My father always told me that if I could become a masterful storyteller, the world would open up for me. He regularly shared how the best storytellers were tops in their fields — salespeople, business leaders, teachers, politicians — but I’d filed that wisdom where most teens file wisdom from a parent — until that Thanksgiving.

As the aroma of turkey and dressing wafted through the air, my father rose, cleared his throat, and started telling a story. It was a simple story of connection framed around a chance encounter he’d had two weeks earlier with a young man at a coffee shop. The story had great detail, solid dialogue, and mild drama about the man’s circumstances. Just as he brought the story to a close, my father pointed to a back table and welcomed the story’s central character to our meal.

That day was different because I didn’t simply watch my father tell a story; I watched the rest of the room watch my father tell a story, leaning forward, hanging on every word — and I was hooked. That day I began a 30-year journey studying, learning from, and ultimately partnering with the greatest storytellers of our generation, from sport icons like Walter Payton, Deion Sanders, and Michael Jordan to top speakers like John Maxwell and Simon Sinek who sought my support when crafting a story that sticks. Many of those were featured in the 13 New York Times best-selling books I would author, selling more than 7 million copies.

As business leaders we typically commit the cardinal sin of speaking — showing before we tell. We’re excited to show people what our results or framework is, failing to tell them why it matters. Then we’re surprised when we get no response. A great storyteller captivates before revealing what’s significant. Take my father, for example. He captivated the room by telling us the story of an inspiring young man whom he kept anonymous until revealing the main character at the very end — an emphasis that left an impression on me forever.

Just by switching the order, your next speech, book, or article can make a mark on your audience for years to come. I’m showing the Real Leaders community how to tell better stories at no charge at verified.real-leaders.com/donyaeger.

You are hard to work for. You drive and drive and drive. You think you are disruptive, but you are erratic. You think you are inspiring, but you are feeding your ego. The problem isn’t me; it’s you.” A former executive on my team told me that on his way out a few years ago. It was the harshest feedback I have ever been given — and the most helpful. It hit me where I was most vulnerable. I have always wanted to be seen as valuable and successful and to make a meaningful difference. That drive has fueled my career, but it can also push me too hard and too fast. His words forced me to confront that truth.

The word that cut the deepest was erratic because erratic leaders don’t inspire confidence. Who wants to follow someone unpredictable? But I could see it. My energy, intensity, and constant stream of ideas could be overwhelming. I moved fast and changed direction, but to others that could feel chaotic.

That night, through tears, I told my husband at the time what happened. He smiled softly. “You’re brilliant and inspiring. You make mistakes, but you own them. That’s what makes you real. Take the good from his feedback and let the rest go.” Those words landed deep. From that moment on, I chose to be unflappable — cool, calm, and collected. I asked my executive team to hold me accountable.

A few months later a ransomware attack shut down all our company’s systems. It was our busiest time of year, and the situation could have sent me spiraling, but I didn’t lose my composure. I gathered my team, shared the facts, and focused on what we could control. Instead of panicking we worked together with focus and resolve. We manually shipped every order, kept our customers informed, and refused to let fear dictate our decisions. Four weeks later we were fully operational again. We hadn’t paid the ransom, lost a customer, or fractured as a team. That crisis became the proof I needed. My decision to lead with calm was no longer an intention; it had become my way of being. My team saw it, trusted it, and followed my lead. What could have been a breaking point became one of our proudest moments.

I often reflect on the courage it takes to receive feedback with grace. On my podcast, Reflect Forward, I spoke with Garry Ridge, former WD-40 CEO, who models that courage beautifully. Garry told me he introduced himself as the consciously incompetent, probably wrong, and roughly right chairman and CEO of WD-40 who needs all the help he can get.

When people offered him feedback, he learned to silence the voice in his head that wanted to argue. Instead he said, “Thank you.” Then he owned what he could and let the rest go. That philosophy struck me. Feedback isn’t an attack; it’s an invitation to grow. When we stop trying to prove ourselves right, we become easier to trust and far more effective as leaders. Every leader says they want honest input, but our instinct is to defend ourselves. Ownership means doing the opposite by asking, “What part of this is mine to own?” When we take feedback with humility and courage, we transform it into growth. We become far more self-aware, approachable, and human. The ownership mindset is about taking even the hardest truths and using them to become better.

I could have dismissed my teammate’s words, blamed him, or hardened myself. Instead I chose to own it — and that changed everything. 

The music was still echoing from the main stage at Unite 2025 when Julie (former CEO) leaned over and told me she was going to make the announcement.

I remember where I was standing. Slightly off to the side. Close enough to feel the energy of the room, far enough not to be the center of it.

“I’m going to announce you as CEO today.”

My first reaction wasn’t pride.

It was resistance.

Not because I didn’t believe I could do it. And not because I hadn’t dreamed of it. When I was 20 years old, I wrote down a goal: CEO before 30. I had structured my early life around that ambition.

And here it was.

But as the applause built and my name carried across the room, my stomach tightened.

We weren’t ready.

The title felt premature — not for me, but for the vision.

Because every promotion I’ve ever received, starting from when I was an intern, followed the same pattern. I either turned it down or negotiated it differently. Not for a bigger title. Not for visibility. But to redirect resources. Hire someone else. Strengthen the team. Build capacity instead of hierarchy.

Titles never motivated me.

Building did.

So when I stepped into the CEO role, it wasn’t triumph I felt.

It was responsibility.

---

The Question That Changed Everything

Instead of immediately casting a grand vision, I started with a question:

What is a Real Leader?

Not what sounds good on a website.

Not what looks impressive in a press release.

But what does it actually mean — in practice — for the CEOs we serve?

If I’m a member, can I see myself in this vision?
If I’m a prospect, does this platform elevate me — or just feature me?
If I’m a customer, am I growing because of this ecosystem?

So I listened.

To founders. To operators. To speakers. To those quietly building movements without recognition.

And what they told me shifted everything.

They didn’t want to just attend events.

They wanted to speak on stages.

They didn’t want to join a network.

They wanted to build their own.

They didn’t want to consume content.

They wanted to create it.

And slowly, it became clear:

If we weren’t careful, we were unintentionally keeping them small.

We had built a respected stage. A strong community. Meaningful connections.

But it still centered us.

If leadership is truly about service, then the model had to evolve.

---

From One Stage to Many

That realization changed our direction.

We are no longer building one central stage.

We are building multiple stages.

If our members want to grow their audience, we need to help them create a consistent communications plan to reach millions of leaders, not just our community. 

If they need the tools to track their progress, our SaaS contributor platform gives them one simplified system to host their best links, track analytics, and generate leads tied directly to their mission.

If they want to host events and grow their own communities, we partner, support, and amplify.

We are not trying to build one global unite event.

We are trying to unite the globe — one leader-driven event at a time.

Because progress does not scale through centralization.

It scales through multiplication.

---

The Reckoning

Here’s what I know now that I didn’t understand at 20:

Leadership is not about becoming the leader.

It’s about creating other leaders.

It’s not about your stage.

It’s about how many stages exist because of you.

It’s not about your reputation.

It’s about the credibility you help others build.

Anyone can organize a team toward a goal.

But a Real Leader is someone who thinks beyond themselves.

Someone who asks, How do I empower others?

How do I build systems strong enough that others can lead without me at the center?

That’s what Julie did.

And when she announced me as CEO at Unite 2025, I felt the weight of that shift.

It’s me now.

And my job is not to be the loudest voice in the room.

My job is to build rooms where others find theirs.

If in five years Real Leaders becomes the ultimate stage for CEOs driving change, it won’t be because we perfected a flagship event.

It will be because thousands of leaders built their own movements — with stronger infrastructure, clearer media, better tools, and deeper confidence.

The measure of my leadership will not be how visible I am.

It will be how many leaders emerge because we built the systems to support them.

That is what Real Leadership is.

And that is the future we’re building.

---

“Peter … you’ve become a pirate.”

I think about this scene from the 1991 movie Hook way more than I should. It’s when elderly Wendy meets a grown-up Peter Pan, who is suited up and very proud of his important work. Peter had become, by all definitions, a corporate plunderer. And Wendy is naming a truth he can’t see about himself. 

Wendy’s statement captures something important about leadership: what we do eventually tells the truth about what we value, whether we intend it to or not. Which brings me to my (perhaps unpopular) belief: 

A firm’s succession plan says more about its values than any mission statement, business plan, or award ever could.

Values can be easy to write. Succession plans are often harder to fake.

As leaders, we can say we’re people-first. That we’re long-term oriented. Or that we care about stewardship and culture, sustainable business practices, and meaningful change, not just profits.

But eventually, every leader has to answer one important question: Who should benefit from what I’ve built when I’m no longer in charge?

That answer, quietly embedded in contracts and deal terms, is your real values statement.

The Allure of a Big Exit

I had my own Peter Pan moment.

As the CEO of Abacus Wealth Partners, a California-based B Corp, I had a responsibility to explore all options on the table. When the opportunity came to learn about selling a minority stake in Abacus, I took the meetings. 

Consultants promised big numbers — numbers that would let me fully retire at the age of 39. The pitch was polished. The projections were compelling.

So, I started asking questions.

I asked about the upside and downside. I dug into who actually benefited from these deals. And the more I probed, the more the answer became uncomfortably clear: the people who won were the largest owners on their way out.

I kept thinking: Who is left holding the bag after all these deals go through? How does this serve our clients? And just as important, how does this serve our team?

We at Abacus have spent 20 years building a company that models the type of world we’d like to live in, one that demonstrates it’s possible to prosper financially while also living a more fulfilling and purposeful life. If we sold a stake in our company, we couldn’t guarantee new owners would uphold those same values.

Could I honestly sit across from the people I’d spent all these years building trust with, those who I fought to protect during hard times, and tell them this was better for them? Better for our clients? Better for the business we’d built together?

I felt it in the pit of my stomach. We’d spent years at Abacus doubling down on our B Corp roots, on being purpose-driven, on building something that mattered beyond profit.

That’s when Wendy’s line hit me. Accepting a deal like that would turn me into a pirate.

Why Private Equity Often Signals a Succession Planning Failure

Whether your company is in financial services, manufacturing, retail, or something else, you’re likely also grappling with the idea of what’s next. Thinking about who will step up to lead when you’re gone. Or wondering who will carry the torch and remain dedicated to the same values that have led your company to where it is today.

For purpose-driven businesses, your exit plan matters even more. And if your exit plan involves selling to private equity, that’s a succession planning failure.

I don’t say that to be provocative. Private equity is very clear about what it optimizes for: time-bound returns, leverage, and exit. That’s not hidden. It is the model.

But in the world of purpose-driven models, the private equity model is the ultimate pirate ship. It pulls into your harbor not to invest in the local community or maintain the lighthouse, but to load the gold onto the deck and sail away with it. Maybe not immediately, but in the next five to seven years.

When a firm that claims to value people above all else hands control to capital whose job is to extract value on a fixed timeline, actions start speaking louder than words. Succession planning forces a choice most of us would rather blur: Is this firm something to be stewarded or something to be monetized?

The Difficult but Rewarding Path of Internal Succession

Internal succession can be harder. Employee ownership can be messier.

It doesn’t happen overnight. It takes patient, thoughtful education and internal communication. It can take a decade to do right. You’re working with people and emotions and money, and all of that gets complicated. People need to opt in, but they also need to understand what they’re opting into, and more importantly, what happens if they don’t.

You don’t get one big check. You don’t get a clean exit. The blueprint isn’t simple or clear.

Once again, you’re forced to answer uncomfortable questions. Do I actually trust the people who helped build this place? Am I willing to earn enough instead of maximizing? And do I believe in my firm’s values beyond my own tenure?

But the upside is so, so sweet.

You get something less flashy and far more revealing: alignment between what you say and what you do.

The founding generation of leaders at Abacus trusted me and the next generation with a vision of stewardship and shared prosperity. We crafted a succession plan by investing in people, not just extracting value.

That’s what it looks like to choose stewardship over plunder.

It’s Time to Take a Look in the Mirror 

A company’s succession plan is its values in action.

So, before you polish your next mission statement or redraft your core values, take a hard look at your succession plan.

Does it match who you say you are?

Or are you becoming a pirate?

Hook’s Peter Pan may have temporarily lost his way, but in the end he rediscovered who he truly was. And while he had sought big adventure, he finally realized that “to live … to live would be an awfully big adventure.”